The Witch’s Daughter (32 page)

Letter from
Mrs. Constance Gimmel to
Professor Salvatores

My dear Professor,

Thank you so much for your kind letter. It is a comfort to me to know Phileas is not forgotten among his friends and colleagues. I know that when I communicate your good wishes, they will mean a great deal to him. His condition remains unchanged. Indeed, it has not altered in any significant way since the day he was found so terribly afflicted. I thank God that he was spared at all, given the sad fate of both Nurse Morrison and the junior doctor in attendance. Though of course I find his suffering hard to witness, I am ever hopeful of improvement. The nightmares that had been waking him with exhausting frequency do appear to have abated, which is a mercy. His blindness he bears with fortitude, though I know he grieves for his sight and all the things he can no longer do.

He talks often of the Fitzroy, naturally, but never of the events of that terrible day. No trace of Mr. Astredge, his sister, or Dr. Hawksmith has ever been found, and the police can give no satisfactory explanation as to what happened. Poor Phileas is unable to do so. Indeed, I doubt he knows himself. I certainly do not see the purpose in pressing him on details. There is nothing to be done, and he finds it so hard to talk of the things that occurred. I know he misses Dr. Hawksmith, and it is regrettable that she cannot be located. I fear the mystery will never be solved, and I must devote my energies to caring for my husband rather than chasing will-o’-the-wisp notions and theories.

Please remember me to Louisa.

Your good friend,

Constance Gimmel

LITHA

MAY 12—LUNAR ECLIPSE

By the time I had finished the story of Eliza, Tegan was properly attentive and bright-eyed. I could see that the tale had once again ignited in her a great curiosity and interest in the idea of magic.

‘So she escaped again?’ she asked.

‘She did. Just. But she was forced to leave Dr. Gimmel with neither farewell nor explanation.’

‘And the others? The nurse and Roland, they died?’

‘Yes. There was nothing anyone could do for them.’

Tegan got out of her chair and began to roam the room, her mind ablaze.

‘Imagine,’ she said, ‘imagine being able to do magic like that. To heal people. To shapeshift.’ She paused and looked at me. ‘To kill people. It’s powerful stuff. Seriously dangerous stuff.’

‘It can be, in the wrong hands.’

‘Well, that Gideon sounds like a complete nightmare. But why should Eliza have to run away from him all the time? Why did she have to hide? Surely she could have defeated him if she’d been ready, set a trap or something?’

‘Remember, Gideon had been her tutor. He instructed her in the craft. He knew every possible trick or trap. He would have known almost before she did what Eliza was planning. That was why often the only course open to her was sudden disappearance, before he had a chance to stop her.’ I paused to watch her and to give her mind a chance to settle. She continued to question me for some time, until at last I held up my hand and silenced her. ‘I have a question for you now, Tegan,’ I said.

‘Yeah?’

‘Are you ready, are you truly ready to become my pupil and learn the craft? Are you ready to devote time and thought and focus to the quest for magic? Are you ready to make sacrifices, to work hard, to be attentive and studious and serious-minded? Are you ready to protect the knowledge you gain, to observe the ways of the hedge witch, to use what you learn only for good? Are you, Tegan?’

She stopped pacing and came to stand before me. I stood up. She met my eye unwaveringly and for once did not fidget or gabble or jump like a grasshopper from one thought to the next. She took a slow breath.

‘Yes, I am ready,’ she said. ‘I am.’

‘Then welcome, Tegan,’ I said, and held out my arms to her.

She beamed a smile of radiant happiness and flung herself at me. As I held her, I wondered how long it had been since her own mother had embraced her.

JULY 12—NEW MOON

It is hard to believe so many months have passed since my last entry. What a summer it has been! I cannot remember a period in my life when I felt so at peace and yet so productive. Tegan has taken to her studies with great enthusiasm, as I think I always knew she would. She devours knowledge the way a starving woman would devour a feast. She has a quick mind and is fearless. Once or twice, I have had to upbraid her for her lack of patience, but then, since this is my own failing too, I am not in a position to be harsh. Her romance continues, but I have not yet been introduced to her lover. It could be that she has taken to heart what I told her about priority and that she does not want the distraction of her man being involved in what we are about here. Or it may be that she has not told him and does not know how to explain. Either way, I am content to have her undivided attention while she is with me. The time she spends elsewhere is not my concern.

I decided the moment had come to formally initiate Tegan into the craft. I felt the act of dedicating herself to the wiccan way, and the solemnity of the ritual, would help her to take her studies seriously, and to feel that she truly belongs. Although often conducted under a new moon, instead I chose the mead moon of a few weeks ago. This is traditionally seen as a time of metamorphosis, so what better occasion for Tegan’s moment of change, of transformation from girl to young hedge witch?

We waited until the night had wrapped itself around the landscape and then made our way up to the stone circle in the copse. I had lent Tegan one of my robes, a beautiful garment of heavy silk given me by the members of a coven in Mumbai over a century ago. The sight of her in it quite made me catch my breath.

‘Do I look okay?’ she asked.

‘You look wonderful.’

A light blush colored her cheeks. I sensed her nervousness and took her hand.

‘Come,’ I said, and led her through the garden and into the copse.

During the preceding weeks, Tegan, on my instruction, had been gathering items for her charm bag—a seashell from Batchcombe beach, a feather from a young kingfisher, the shell of a wren’s egg, and an empty butterfly cocoon. She had wrapped them in moss, tied them with some strands of her own hair, and put them in the small velvet bag she had chosen for the purpose. When we reached the circle, I bade her place the charms on the flat stone to the east. I lit a candle, which was to burn down completely before the bag was moved. After the ceremony, her charms would become the first part of her own protective wiccan tools.

Tegan began to pace around the circle, chanting, invoking the spirits of the elements, lighting candles at the four compass points. Her voice was uncharacteristically hesitant.

‘
The witch, the magic, the fire, are one. The witch, the magic, the earth, are one. The witch, the magic, the air, are one. The witch, the magic, the water, are one.
’

I drew her into the center of the circle and banged my staff firmly into the dry ground three times and cried, ‘The circle is sealed!’ I raised my arms. We both turned our faces to a night sky of dazzling clarity and stillness. ‘O Goddess!’ I called. ‘A seeker stands before you. She wishes to join us, to become one with the craft. She is of strong will, clear mind, and open heart. Her soul is free of evil, and she wishes to use the craft only for the good of others. I ask you to hear her. Heal her. Transform her.’ I returned my gaze to Tegan and we joined hands. ‘Recite with me the Rede of the Wicca, child. Speak from your heart. Consider the words as you utter them, and be sure you mean every one.’

And so we spoke together:

‘Bide the Wiccan Law you must, in perfect love and perfect trust.

Live and let live; fairly take and fairly give.

Soft of eye and light of touch, speak little and listen much.

Deosil go by the waxing moon.…’

I watched as the power and wisdom of the words lit up Tegan’s face, and her grip on my hands became strengthened. When we had finished, I asked her, ‘What is the witches’ creed?’

She answered clearly, her voice emboldened, ‘To know, to dare, to will, to be silent.’

‘Will you abide by these laws?’

‘I will.’

‘And will you promise to honor the Goddess, to respect the way of the wiccan, to use the craft only for good, spurning all thoughts of gain or self-aggrandisement?’

‘I will.’

I passed her a new candle of pale purple and lit it for her. She held it aloft.

‘Now?’ she asked.

I nodded.

She took a deep breath and raised her voice to the heavens. ‘I call thee down, dear Goddess! Enter my body. Commune with my soul. Be with me as I take this sacred step into your arms and into the sisterhood of the craft.’

There was utter silence. Not a leaf moved. Nothing in the woods stirred, neither flora nor fauna. It was as if every single thing held its breath and waited. The flame of the candle Tegan held aloft began to dance and flicker, though there was not the slightest whisper of wind. It grew brighter, bluer, pulsating. It climbed higher, its phosphorescent radiance casting an ethereal glow that filled our circle. By its light I could see the joy and wonder in Tegan’s face. She must have been awed, but she did not falter. Her hold on the candle remained steady. Suddenly, the moment was over, the flame returned to normal, the sounds of the woodlands resumed once more.

I smiled at Tegan and she beamed back at me.

‘Is it done?’ she asked.

‘It is.’ I took the candle from her and placed it in the center of the circle. ‘Follow me,’ I told her.

She stepped carefully over the stones and allowed herself to be led over to the stream and the small consecrated pool.

‘Look,’ I said. ‘Look and see your reflection and know that you are looking at a fine young witch.’

She leaned forward, excitement winning over nervousness, and gazed into the watery mirror. ‘Oh!’ she gasped. ‘I look the same … but different somehow.’

I laughed lightly. ‘What had you expected?’

‘I don’t know. Something. Nothing, perhaps. It is so strange. It’s just my reflection. There’s nothing scary or weird, but … I am changed. There is something.’ She turned to me. ‘I feel it,’ she said, joyful tears brimming in her eyes. She sprang to me, wrapping her arms tightly about me, hugging me close. ‘Thank you!’ she whispered into my hair. ‘Thank you!’

JULY 24—DARK OF THE MOON

I am finding it increasingly hard to keep my irritation in check. Tegan’s continued tardiness and lack of commitment to the course upon which we were set is making me seriously question her suitability for the craft.

AUGUST 19—WANING MOON

I see now that I have, rather stupidly, underestimated the seriousness of Tegan’s relationship with her mysterious boyfriend. At first, she would arrive late for one of our sessions, breathless and apologetic. Then she began to miss meetings altogether. Now I feel she cannot be relied upon to keep our appointments, and when she does deign to attend, she is distracted.

AUGUST 25—DARK OF THE MOON

Things cannot continue as they are. I have attempted to raise the matter of unreliability with Tegan, but somehow the conversation always turns to her boyfriend and she becomes defensive. I see that if I press her, I may lose her completely. I will have to bide my time and hope that the initial flame of passion subsides soon, and sufficiently for her to be able to take a more long-term view of how she invests her time and energy.

SEPTEMBER 2—MOON IN LIBRA

A surprise this morning, and not a pleasant one. I was busy in the vegetable garden taking down bean sticks when I heard the front gate squeak. Footsteps padded up the path, two pairs of young, restless feet. Tegan appeared around the side of the house pink with pleasure and pride, her hand clutching that of a tall, fair young man.

‘Elizabeth, this is Ian,’ she told me, gazing up at him.

He is older than I had expected, not a teenager at all. In his mid-twenties at least, I think. Not a boy but a man. Surely unsuitably mature for Tegan. His sandy hair and pale blue eyes are undeniably appealing. He has a pleasing face and is soft-spoken. In short, there is nothing about his appearance to object to or which could give obvious cause for alarm. But Tegan knows practically nothing about him. He is not, as I had imagined, part of a family recently moved into the area. He is a loner, living in a narrow boat on the canal, and he has a motorbike. He performs for donations for a living, so he has no place of work. No friends. No past, it seems. I admit he appears open and polite and is charmingly attentive toward Tegan, but why is he bothering with her at all? She is a child. I am aware some girls her age are worldly and womanly, but Tegan is not. She is utterly in his thrall already, to the point where I could barely hold a proper conversation with her. She rabbited on about Ian’s gypsy lifestyle and how brilliantly he plays the guitar and how cool his houseboat is. While she spoke, I watched him. He smiled down at her, seemingly enjoying her girlish twitterings.

‘Elizabeth?’

Tegan broke into my thoughts, and I realized I had been staring. I pulled myself together and offered to make tea. I was relieved when they declined, saying that they had planned a trip to Pasbury on Ian’s motorbike. I waved them off, feigning cheerfulness, but I was concerned for Tegan—she is so very young—what does she know of the ways of men?

SEPTEMBER 8—MOON IN THIRD QUARTER

Tegan has missed two of our sessions. This morning I made myself take a walk along the canal. I was certain I would find Tegan with Ian on his houseboat, and I was no longer content to let him interfere with her instruction. Perhaps the sight of me would remind her of her commitment. I carried my staff and asked the sun god for protection before setting out. It was nearly eleven by the time I found Ian’s mooring. The boat itself looked unremarkable and quiet. The motorbike was chained to the aft deck. I approached slowly and was greatly startled when the door opened and Ian stepped out.